RED NOTES AND KISSES-Chapter 119: FRIDA -

This was the second attempt in just 48 hours of the New Year. Frida sighed, running a hand through her hair.

Laz was asleep now, resting peacefully, but he still hadn’t told her who had just tried to shoot them.

The thought weighed heavily on her. She knew she shouldn’t leave him alone—not now—but she needed answers. She needed space.

Standing, she decided to head out. A quick shower and grabbing some fresh clothes for both her and Laz when he was discharged seemed like the most practical course of action.

As she stepped outside, the icy air hit her, but it wasn’t the cold that froze her in place. It was her.

That awful, perfectly styled shade of blonde hair caught her eye. The woman leaned casually against a sleek Lamborghini, her French coat impeccable, a cigarette balanced between her fingers. She arched her neck, and her designer sunglasses reflected the sunlight like a challenge.

"Need a ride?" Delancie asked, her voice smooth, nonchalant.

Frida swallowed hard, debating her choices before reluctantly sliding into the car.

The ride was quiet at first—just the hum of the engine and the occasional drag from Delancie’s cigarette. Frida preferred it that way, at least until Delancie broke the silence.

"Why don’t you have a car?"

"Certain traumatic experiences," Frida replied sharply, her tone cutting off further probing.

Delancie shook her head, exhaling a plume of smoke. "You’re weak."

Frida clenched her fists at the words. "So everyone seems to tell me these days."

"I know about you," Delancie continued, her voice calm but probing. "I heard you used to be terrifying—Shelly." She swerved the car smoothly as if the name was a casual observation.

"So I’ve heard," Frida responded coldly, her gaze fixed on the road ahead.

The silence that followed was suffocating.

"If you don’t find a way to stop him," Delancie said finally, her jaw tight, "you and Laz will never be together. Not in peace, anyway."

Her voice lowered, almost bitter. "And I can never be with her."

With a flick of her wrist, Delancie tossed her finished cigarette out of the window and placed a fresh one between her lips.

"Can you?" she asked, holding out a lighter as they pulled up to a gritty boxing gym.

Frida took the lighter reluctantly, lighting the cigarette for her. She frowned at the unfamiliar surroundings. "What are we doing here?"

"Training," Delancie said simply, stepping out of the car.

Frida glanced at her, taking in the perfect hair, manicured nails, and polished boots. "You box?"

Delancie raised an eyebrow. "You don’t?"

Frida rolled her eyes but followed her out of the car. "Fine. What do I need to help Laz?"

Delancie’s gaze was unwavering. "Remember who you are."

Frida blinked at her, confused. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"Just remember."

Frida groaned, throwing her hands up in exasperation. "What is this? Some kind of Lion King crap?" she snapped, stepping out and slamming the car door behind her.

Delancie smirked, her eyes gleaming. "You’ll see."

----

The boxing gym was bustling with energy. People sparred in pairs, the rhythmic thuds of gloves meeting flesh echoing through the air. Delancie navigated them past the crowd to a more secluded area with a lone ring at its center.

A burly coach approached, his eyes lighting up when he saw Delancie. "Hey, French Cake," he said with a smirk, his gaze sweeping over her designer outfit.

Delancie rolled her eyes, unfazed. "This is Mark, my coach. He’ll be guiding us—not that I need it, but you might," she added with a smirk, tossing a pair of gloves to Frida.

Frida caught them, arching a brow. As Delancie shrugged off her coat, Frida’s gaze fell to her boots. "You’re going to fight me in those?"

Delancie smirked. "Don’t worry about me, sweetheart. Just give me your best shot."

Frida sighed, stepping into the ring. "Firstly, I’m exhausted," she muttered as Mark helped her put on the gloves. "Secondly, I’m starving."

Delancie chuckled, her excitement palpable. "Don’t worry, I’ll buy you dinner. But first, throw the punch."

As Frida stepped into the ring, a strange sense of déjà vu washed over her. The feel of the gloves, the sound of her boots scuffing against the mat—it all felt eerily familiar.

Delancie took a stance, grinning. "Well? Throw the first punch. Let me give you the upper hand."

Frida smirked. "Don’t mind if I do." She swung her fist, but Delancie dodged it effortlessly.

"Too slow," Delancie taunted, her grin widening.

Frida threw another punch, and again, Delancie dodged with ease. "Still too slow." Before Frida could react, Delancie’s glove connected with her stomach, and Frida stumbled back, coughing.

"This is gonna hurt, Doctor," Delancie said, her grin turning wicked.

Anger flared in Frida as she threw a flurry of punches. But Delancie dodged them all, dancing around the ring until Frida, frustrated and off-balance, left an opening. Delancie’s fist collided squarely with her nose.

Pain exploded in Frida’s head, her already weakened body teetering. The hunger from the past few days made her dizzy, and Delancie’s mocking laughter didn’t help. "You might as well give up now. I’m beating you in high heels," she said, glancing down at her Versace boots.

Frida wiped at her nose, standing shakily. Delancie threw another punch, but Frida blocked it with both arms and retaliated with a sharp knee to Delancie’s stomach.

Delancie staggered, momentarily winded. "Not bad," she managed before Frida’s fist caught her on the jaw.

The hit enraged Delancie, who swiftly swept Frida’s legs out from under her. Frida hit the mat hard, her head pounding as her vision doubled.

Delancie’s laughter echoed above her, but it triggered something deep within Frida—a flash of memory. She saw herself and Laz sparring in that dim basement, their faces bruised, jaws aching, and bloodied fists still swinging.

The memory reignited her resolve. Rage surged through her veins, and she climbed to her feet, her stance steady. With one clean, powerful punch, she knocked Delancie down.

Frida didn’t stop. She straddled Delancie, throwing punch after punch until Mark intervened, pulling her off. In her fury, Frida instinctively kneed him in the groin and followed up with a blow to his face. Mark crumpled to the floor, unconscious.

Reality hit her like a freight train. Frida gasped, horrified at herself. "Oh no. What have I done?"

Delancie, leaning against the ropes with a satisfied grin, chuckled. "You showed us a glimpse of Shelly," she said, almost proud, as she climbed out of the ring and shrugged her coat back on.

"Come on, let’s go eat."

Frida hesitated, glancing over her shoulder at Mark groaning on the floor. "What about him? Shouldn’t we do something?"

"He’s fine," Delancie said dismissively, stretching out a hand. "Dinner now."

Frida ignored the gesture, stepping out of the ring on her own. Her heart still raced as she left the gym, Delancie’s laughter trailing behind her.

----

The tantalizing aroma of expensive food wafted through the air, making Frida’s stomach rumble. She stared at the fancy restaurant in front of her, feeling utterly out of place in her grease-stained coveralls.

"Delancie, I can’t go in there," Frida muttered, slumping in her seat.

Delancie stepped out of the car, her heels clicking confidently on the pavement. "Why not?"

Frida gestured at her outfit. "Look at me!"

Delancie glanced at her and smirked. "You’ve always had terrible taste in clothes."

"Seriously?" Frida shot her a glare, but Delancie ignored it, walking to the car’s trunk. She pulled out a sleek bag and tossed it at Frida.

"Put this on. Quickly. We don’t have all day," Delancie said, already striding toward the restaurant entrance.

Frida opened the bag, cringing as she took out its contents. The dress was flashy—a deep purple sequined gown with a daring high slit and a plunging neckline that left little to the imagination. It was the complete opposite of her style.

But the alternative was worse. She sighed, slipping into the dress and stepping into the quiet, opulent restaurant.

As she walked through the elegant space, she couldn’t help but take in the beauty of the place. It had been far too long since she’d treated herself to something even remotely luxurious.

Delancie waved her over from a private corner table, sipping a glass of red wine. Frida sank into the seat opposite her, still tugging awkwardly at the neckline of the dress.

Delancie poured wine into another glass and offered it to her. "Wine?"

Frida shook her head. "I have a low tolerance for alcohol."

Delancie arched a brow, swirling her wine dramatically. "Seriously? What does Laz even see in you? You’re like some innocent dove caught in a thorn bush," she said, her tone dripping with mock pity.

Annoyed, Frida grabbed the glass and downed it in one gulp.

Delancie smiled approvingly. "Good."

They looked over the menu, with Delancie pointing out French dishes she thought Frida might like. After placing their order, Frida leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms.

"Why did you bring me here, Delancie? Enough with the games."

Delancie leaned forward, sliding a photograph across the table. "We’re taking him down," she said with a sly smile.

Frida picked up the photo. It was of a middle-aged man with a sharp suit and an even sharper gaze. "Who’s this?"

"The manager of Central Banks," Delancie replied, her voice low and conspiratorial. "He’s neck-deep in money laundering. If we take him out, we’ll get the hard evidence we need. And we’ll hand it over to a trusted cop—one I know you’ve already met."

Frida’s posture straightened. "Sounds simple enough."

Delancie’s smirk widened. "Except it’s not."

Before Frida could press further, a man in an exquisitely tailored suit approached their table. His confident stride and dazzling smile turned heads as he bent to kiss Delancie on the cheek.

"Delancie, what a lovely surprise," he said, his voice smooth as velvet.

"Pierre," Delancie replied, her tone calm but her smile strained. "What brings you here?"

Pierre’s gaze shifted to Frida, and he offered her a charming smile. "And who is this?"

"This is Frida," Delancie introduced, her tone almost begrudging.

Pierre took Frida’s hand, brushing his lips against her knuckles. "Enchanté, Frida. You are truly stunning."

Frida felt an awkward heat rise to her cheeks as she mumbled a polite thank-you.

Delancie’s expression remained unreadable as Pierre lingered for a moment longer, his presence adding a palpable tension to the table. freёweɓnovel.com